Excuse Me While I Whip This Out...

Did you shriek? Did you gasp? Did you faint?

Well... you should have.

Try harder next time.

So, today is unseasonably warm in My Little Slice of Heaven. The weather forecast is remarkable:

Yeah. *Almost* 80 degrees. In Northern New England. In March.
That seems right.

In any case, it's too warm for woolies and boots anymore. Which means that yesterday, the Summer Clothes came out. And great excitement ensued.

The cute tops... The swishy skirts... The sandals and flip flops and The-Pastel-Purple-Ensconcements-of-Remarkable-Comfortableness-But-Also-Remarkable-Dorkiness-That-I-Only-Wear-To-Start-My-Car-In-The-Morning-Because-The-Rest-Of-The-Time-I'm-Ashamed-To-Own-Them Crocs... Oh yeah. The good stuff.

Except yesterday I wore the only skirt in the bunch that I could pull out of winter storage and wear immediately, because it was made to look wrinkled. And then last night I spent my time being outside in the sunshine... and then enjoying Tasty Noms of Social Awkwardness But Total Deliciosity**... and then going out for ice cream *with sprinkles*... So I didn't get around to airing the rest of the clothes out and conquering some of the months-old wrinkles.

Which means that my Morning Garb-A-Palooza today wasn't so easy.

After rifling through the entire box (and two different iterations of "I own *nothing* of suitable cuteness!", followed by "I thought your last outfit was awesome, honey...") I ended up finding one of my favorite purple dresses. It's soft cotton jersey - like wearing Boyfriend's favorite tee-shirt, but without the unfortunate side effect of being baggy in all the wrong places. And, you know, it's purple. I can do anything through Purple, who I'm pretty sure is magic.

But Favorite Purple Dress is clingy and drapey and doesn't have a pocket or a low-slung waistline. Which means that I had to endeavor to find some other accommodations for my badges this morning.

Yes, badgeS.

Being in a new office of markedly higher safety standards, I am safely ensconced within a maze of locked doors that only open for Bearers of The Badge. So safely ensconced, in fact, that it takes a series of badges to get into my Work-Week Homeland.

First, there is the Parking Garage Badge. Larger than its cousins, it contains what I am certain is a chunk of magnet thick enough to render a pacemaker useless. Every morning I flap it idly at the little pad, and the gate opens. I am worthy of parking my car. (It's nice, because it's 24/7 access to secure parking in the part of town filled with amazing restaurants and clubs and Places to Frequent with a Boyfriend of Amazingness. Thank goodness I have one, so I can go there.)

Then I tootle up the little hill and to the back door of the office where I must use Outside Door Badge in order to gain access to the building. It MUST be tipped sideways, though, which made access difficult in the beginning of my employment as it had been punched for my badgeholder on an end that got in the way of scanning. So mostly I just stood at the door looking pathetic until someone else came along and I could hitch a ride on their worthiness train. (Once Someone In Posession Of A Badge Punch found out about my predicament, though, it was quickly remedied. Now I can get in any time, all by my big girl self.)

Finally, once inside the building, I can abandon my other badges in favor of the one I need for inside: my Inside Door Badge. This is the prettiest badge of all, adorned with my face on one side and the splashes from a mud puddle it jumped into over the winter on the other. And whenever I encounter a door within the building, I flap the little badge against the little touchpad, and the lock clicks open.

Which is a pain in the neck first thing in the morning, when I put my badge on my desk so I can "run real quick to get my breakfast" and then can't get back inside. (So I stand in the hallway, looking as though I just got off the elevator and waiting for someone else to come along and beep me in.) And also when I wear pretty slinky purple dresses with no where suitable to clip a badge holder.

I tried clipping it to the little empire-waistline belt that is purely for decoration. It ended up agitating my armpit.

I tried clipping it to my neckline, just under my shoulder, but it ended up thwaping my chest, my arm and my ear whenever I walked. (The ear part boggles me. I wasn't jumping or anything.)

So that's how I ended up in the restroom this morning, trying desperately to figure out how to conceal an Inside Door Badge Of +5 Access To Workplaces in my bra.

It works okay, except for the pinching. It threw everything off kilter when I tucked it into one side or the other, so it's stuffed directly down the front.

Which means that I either need to stuff my hand down the front of my dress every time I encounter a door (a la Blazing Saddles, of course!) or I need to take sexual liberties with wall fixtures.

Either way, it's been an exciting day indeed.

** Deep fried chicken patty with bacon, cheese and a fried egg on top, all in one heavenly little burger called the "Mother and Child Reunion." Don't think... and for the love of all that is Purple, don't judge. Just eat.

My Dawdling Brought To You By...

There are so many websites out there for me to waste time on. 

There are my social networking sites where I can chat about really important personal issues, and post links to my amazing blog. That being said... I liked it better when I could throw virtual sheep. There's just nothing quite like flinging a fuzzball through the cyberwaves to show a loved one how much you care.

There are video hosting sites where I can watch almost anyone do almost anything. A three year old singing about the sweet names her mom calls her ... A college student dancing like a maniac...or even a baby monkey tootling about on its favorite swine. (Yes, dearhearts, all links here are to the *actual* websites, where the *actual* authors are credited. Call me crazy, but someday, if someone ever decides I'm worth copying, I want me some credit, so I try to repay in kind.) Again, I reiterate - watch almost anyone do almost anything... in almost terrifying clarity.

There are websites where I can shop... Websites where I can find recipes... Websites where I can sit on my tukkas and just listen to some tunes... The Internet is full of wonderfulness.

But today's web-focused delirium is brought to you by The Online Corkboard.

I managed to avoid the preliminary rush of excitement over this phenomenon. I mean, my physical environment is clutteriffic anyway. I have my Wall of Pictures. I have a three-month calendar, a weekly calendar and a weekly planner (and still I can't keep on schedule or on task). I have piles of paper on every available surface... Including my guest chair.** I have plenty of crap around without littering an online corkboard with Items of Interest to Me. I'm an (optimistically speaking) artist, for goodness sake. If it's shiny, or sparkly**1, or of any interest whatsoever... I'm going to click on it. And then I'm going to waste time.

Which I did. I trawled through photos of DIY clothing... dance photos and makeup tutorials... I even found a clever advertisement for an open Engineering position. But I didn't see anything I was anxious to "RePin."

So when I stumbled across a new website in the same vein, but focused upon a male audience... My interest was piqued. Which, of course, is always the way of it: Women develop something completely inane. Men turn this inane-ity into something sexually based, therein creating something completely different and completely interesting. Women find it and are outwardly shocked at the blatant nature of it... While inwardly they bitch slap themselves for not thinking of going to The Sex Place right from the start.

So I opened this new website. And, of course, was bombarded by awesome: Bacon... Star Trek... A fantastic Guide To Eating Anything Delicious You Will Ever Encounter (Except Bacon)... And, of course, the Token Female In Various States of Undress. (No, kidlets, I will not provide a link to that. I'm a *good* person, despite some prevailing opinions. And if you get grounded, who will visit my blog and make me feel validated that someone is reading my words?) In essence, this site was filled with things I *actually* take an interest in... With so far fewer of the baby goods that I have no need for. (Note: the Man Version does have this, which is made of baby and awesome. Win.)

So with a slow day approaching me tomorrow, I ask you my ReaderLoves - Do you have a favorite Pin or Nail to share here? I'd love to hear your thoughts. 

**All the better for discouraging unsavory characters from loitering in my cubby.

**1 Vampires NOT included. 

Montage

Dear ReaderFriends:


I am sorry for the sustained radio silence. I have been fighting a cold, and have been having to take care of some unsightly work during my lunchtimes at work. Which is totally bumming me out.


I promise, I'm trying to find something clever to say. It'll come, eventually.


In the meantime... Thank you for checking in. I do appreciate you.


Meanwhile, here is a photo montage of my life of late, which have absolutely nothing to do with EngineerFriends:

Because coworkers deserve a warning for these things.

Boyfriend of Amazingness built this. And I helped.

This was my lunch. The herbivores didn't stand a chance.

I made this. Boyfriend picked the button. We = A Good Team.

I am now a bespectacled personage. They're purple.

Be well, ReaderFriends.

Six Simple Steps...

STEP ONE: Leave work on Friday evening, and then return because of circumstances beyond your control.

It all started at Happy Hour...

It was a calm, brisk Friday evening after a hellacious week. No one knew why it was hellacious, either, which just lent itself all the more to being disgusting and full of ick. The week dragged on endlessly, full of frustrating tasks and impatient people all struggling to trudge through the dreary doldrums of their lives. A break could not be caught. No snack time meanderings, or lunch dates, or early-evenings-out-of-the-office could cure the general state of abysmality to which my collective workforce had sunk.

So when Friday appeared, full of gleeful promise and exciting pre-weekend zazzle, the spirit within the office rose tangibly and deliberately. Friday was here, and we were going to celebrate.

After conquering the work day (or, at least, most of it...), the Merry Sojourners descended from their hellish heights onto the bright and shining (or, at least, not totally dark) streets of their fair city. Henceforth to the tavern they went.

It was there where my belly decided that it was done with this dreary life, and threw in the towel.

Or, more specifically, threw in my lunch.

And my afternoon snack.

And my one glass of wine, which I had washed down with spicy wings and a glass of water. (This is important, because it was just the one glass of wine. I wish I could say this was a drunken endeavor. Oh, if that were true...)

In the tiniest restroom I've ever had the pleasure of visiting.**

My evening - full of delightful plans of work-escaped-ness and freedom - came crashing down around me. Instead I spent a painful half hour hobbling around the block between the bar and my workplace, willing my stomach to settle to at least a point of neutrality, if not complacency. Unfortunately, upon realizing that my gastronomical excitement wasn't over, I was resigned to shuffle back into my office where I knew I could find solace without making a purchase or risking an infection at the hands of a public toilet.

STEP TWO: Spend what should be the second-most food-filled weekend of the year with a wobbly stomach.

The weekend was spent in various states of wellness. While at home, I felt just fine. But prolonged activity - or a breath of fresh air - was enough to send me reeling back down to the depths of discomfort. While all nourishment throughout the remainder of the weekend did stay comfortably within my gastro-intestinal tract where it belonged, I spent the weekend nursing plain beverages and trying to maintain a bland diet that wouldn't render me totally devoid of nutrition, but also wouldn't send me scuttling back into the bathroom at warp speed.

Which would have been alright... if it wasn't an action-packed weekend centered entirely around food.

Friday evening there was a plan to go to one of the most fantastic burger joints that our fair city has to offer. No dice.

Saturday, we found that the abysmal absence of groceries within our kitchen would force us out into the Great Wide World in search of nomz. Lunch was sandwiches, followed by a difficult few hours of shopping wherein I was short with Boyfriend of Amazingness because of belly-ouches, and he not only put up with my negativity, but also held my hand in the produce section. Not a loss, but not at all the optimal procedure.

Saturday evening held an opportunity we always try to take advantage of: The First-Saturday-Of-The-Month Dine-And-(Watch Others)Dance at an awesome restaurant. Watching of Dancing: Check. Dining: Nice try... but not so much.

Sunday morning I Adventured in Organized Religion with my maternal unit and my Sibling-Bot to a new place to listen to a very inspiring person who works as the head of one of my favorite charities. After the service: Cake. Sigh.

Which brings us to Sunday evening. I live in Patriots' Nation, dear ReaderFriends. You cannot fathom the nomz I had at my disposal last evening. Every delicacy you can consider, dripping with cheese and bacon and chocolate and awesome. And what did my bowl spend the evening filled with: plain noodles, one plain chicken wing and the smallest helping of macaroni and cheese that I felt I could get away with. Which is unfortunate on more than one level... I certainly didn't attend the party to watch the fantastic sporting event.

STEP THREE: Spend Monday morning battling an epic case of "The Walls Are Creeping In And I Must Clean All The Things Now."

This morning, I stepped out of the shower and was faced with two baskets of clean clothing that Boyfriend of Amazingness had laundered over the weekend. Instead of pawing through in search of the clothes I needed, I decided to take advantage of my "five extra minutes" that I found by getting out of the shower in a timely-ish fashion (thanks in large part to a "So, how's your belly button looking this morning?" from the other side of the curtain five minutes after I ceased all purposeful motion within my Blissful Escape by Hot Waters...) by folding my way down to the undies I so desperately needed. By the time I found them, I was almost finished with the basket. So I just wrapped it up.

And then put all of the folded clothes away.

And then gathered up the dirty clothes from around the room and put them into the empty basket.

(And then assuaged Boyfriend's pouting self that laundry was a perpetual motion machine, and it wasn't his fault that there was more.)

That should have been the end of it... But I couldn't stop.

I loaded the dishwasher, and started it.

I washed all the other dishes that were in the kitchen.

I tidied up the countertops.

And by the time I realized what was going on...

STEP FOUR: Futz around with "chores" for so long that you run out of time to do your hair, your makeup or find your cute necklace.

I have very few pieces of "Armor" that I wear every day. I have things that I wear because I like them, and thinks that I wear because they make me feel cute, but there are few things that I wear because I feel lost without them.

My two rings and my watch are these items.

My rings are ones which were bought in a pair. One stayed with me, and the other went to my younger sister. No matter where we are, there's always a little piece of the other close by. (Yeah, yeah. Gag. Cutesy. Whatever. I don't judge your sibling traditions... Even the one where you compare knuckle hair. Yeah, I mean you...)

Makeup I can (and often do) go without. I prefer to have it on in the office, because the barrage of concerned questions about my health overwhelm me. But it's not a hardship to deal without it.

Hair I can play off. I usually leave the house with soggy locks in the morning. I abhor hair dryers, so the only options are to wash it at night and wake up with Frizz-A-Palooza, or to wash it in the morning and spend the morning with a damp head. I'm okay with that. It means I have a little flexibility in fixing my hair in the mirror at work.

But I'm lost without my sparkles.

STEP FIVE: Realize after decided that today would be a fantastic Mental Health Day that you promised to cover the Receptionist's morning off.

Yup, I was already halfway to deciding that today wasn't worth the effort when I realized there was no way to *not* go to work this morning. And not only that... I had to be on time.

Not a small feat when this realization came to me ten minutes after I should have left for work.

STEP SIX: Spend the morning on a glitchy computer, in an uncomfortable chair, working on the third reitiration of an instruction list that will be ignored.

And those, my ReaderFriends, are Six Simple Steps To The Monday-est Monday.

** No, seriously. Boyfriend of Amazingness visited it first, and informed me with a gleeful giggle that I "had to check it out." Upon inspection, I found that the subject of his awe was that if one single element within that Teeny Tiny Tinkle-Room had taken more than its fair share of space, he simply wouldn't have fit inside. If any smaller, the depth and breadth of that glorified (but only just) closet would have forced the previous occupant to stand in the doorway and creatively cock his leg around the doorframe in order to hit the commode.  And while that would have been a clever and exciting sight, I think I'm glad that it had a tiny little sliding panel door, which added the two extra inches they needed to not only stand comfortably, but also to turn around and wash their hands. The absence of piddle on the seat was all the better for my vomiting comfort, my dear.

Winter Safety

Ah, winter. What a glorious time of year.

- The roads get covered with gooey gunk which rivals the grease trap in the kitchen of the Ol' Home Fill 'Er Up And Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe.**

- The sidewalks become a disgusting mess of frozen puddles and salt deposits with the sole purpose of ruining my favorite "It's Winter But I Don't Have To Admit It Yet" boots.

- The driveway becomes stuck in an infinite loop of Being Shoveled and then Being Filled With Snow From The Rotten NeighborSpawn Who Insist That My Driveway Is Better For Sledding Than Their Own, with only sporadic interruptions for when Lady Nature decides that my yard is a disgraceful mess and needs to be whitewashed.

So, yeah. Winter. Woot.

I'm fairly lucky. While my driveway is a source of difficulty, at least it isn't long. And if it snows overnight while the cars are in the yard, the shovelling isn't awful. Just pull the cars into the road and *kapow.* Instant clean.

And it's not like this season lasts forever, either. Yes, it starts getting cold in September. Yes, it's still not tee-shirt weather in April. But at least the snow is only really awful from January until the end of March. And the days don't stay short forever. In fact, just this morning I realized that there was light for my Getting Ready For Work ritual. Which is nice.

However, I do have a bit of an issue with one thing:

Walking.

Walking around My Friendly Home State can be a mess in the wintertime. It never used to be such an issue - Prior to the move, I had to walk around a small parking lot at work. I could dictate how far I wanted to walk on my Shopping Endeavors, and walking up my driveway was a slice of schnitzel. There's hardly any drive to walk up. No complaints there.

But now, I've got a bit of a hike.

When we evacuated our prior Working Establishment in favor of new digs, we gave up our Cooshy Parking Lot of Awesomeness in favor of a parking garage.

Which isn't awful, I admit, when it snows and I don't have to shovel my car.

However, this parking lot is (depending on which side of the building I exit), just under a quarter of a mile away. Which means that I have some hiking to do.

That becomes difficult in the wintertime because:

- I do not live in a flat state, where you can see from one side to the other uninterrupted. I have mountains all over the place Being In The Way. To that end I do not just travel in the X and Y, but also in the Z.

- I work in a lovely older neighborhood whose establishment thought that bricks made a fantastic paving medium for sidewalks. Not the rough kind of brick, either... No, walking on these puppies is an adventure not unlike fresh fuzzy socks on a clean hardwood floor. Careful footsteps can make your walk a little safer, but you never know when the dog is going to come barreling around the corner and send you skittering across the living room on your rumpus.

- I am not old and decrepit, so I enjoy pretty shoes. That means I don't always choose the sneakers or clonky winter boots that would keep me safe... Sometimes I pick the pretty heels that make me feel like (brace yourself...) a female.

Now, that's not to say that residents of my fair Work City don't understand my plight. Last evening, as I was slip-sliding down the sidewalk on my Boots of Sunneriffic Might, two gentlemen passed me and regaled me with a little ditty I hear often on my adventures: "Be careful there! Whoops! Are you alright?"

I forged onward. I have my own little arsenault of tricks that help me feel more in control of my appendages:

- Stick arms out as if to create an A-Frame around one's trunk. This increases wind resistance in case a skid occurs. In addition, it airs out ghastly underarm odors that can occur when Heavy Winter Jackets are installed.

- Bend knees to increase proximity from posterior to sidewalk. This leaves a shorter distance to landing in case of an unfortunate fall, thus protecting That Which The Opposite Sex Ogles.

- Don't pick up one's feet. Just slide them along the sidewalk, lessening propulsion to impulse speed. This takes forces (other than gravity) out of the equation for toppling to the ground, so it's more of a fall and less of a forceful hurling of one's self to the pavement.

By and large, these rules keep me from Eating Dirt during my trudge from the office to my car.

However, it must have become apparent that I wasn't employing teleportation, and was indeed using My Own Two Feet to zoom from my workplace to the garage, and couldn't possibly be making safe choices unsupervised.

And so my employer created Safety Instructions just for travelers like myself.

These commandments have been issued in what I'm sure was constructed to be a whimsical fashion - Trying to catch the attention of the masses and impart their Safety Knowledge without bludgeoning the workers over the head with proper walking practices. Their thoughts aren't unlike my own - arms out, shuffle your feet, bend your knees... However, they took it one step further. For your enjoyment:

Don't Endanger Your Posterior, ReaderFriends. Make Good Choices Instead.

** Thank you, C.W. McCall, for that timeless piece of classic music!